The Brilliantly Rainbowed Adventure

        We were hard on the trail of our good buddy Frogstick, and we didn't let up a bit all morning. Finally, at along about noon, we hit a whole passel of torn up turf, and we paused to get out bearings, but we were lost, and there was no finding them. Billy said that he could show us where we were at on a map, but we didn't have one, so he couldn't have shown us where we were if he had wanted to, which he did, but he couldn't.
        We were lost.
        Billy got all embarrassed at this point. He made us all promise not to tell anybody that he had gotten us lost, him being a Native American and all, because he wasn't too anxious to be the laughing-stock of the next powwow. I crossed my fingers, and didn't promise anything much, and Billy didn't see me anyway, so now I can tell you all what happened.
        To tell you the truth, I told Billy I wouldn`t smell anyone, not that I wouldn't tell anyone, and the promise was easy to keep, seeing as how Stink's continual presence in our midst had numbed out our schnozzes and probably done permanent damage to our olfactory systems. We had suffered quite a bit of nostril abuse in the company of the old Sultan of Stench, if you sniff my drifting gist.
        To put it plainly, we were turned around plumb backwards, directionally speaking, but the turf was torn up something fierce by the hogs. Their footprints were still crumbling around the edges, and it was obvious that they were just ahead of us. Billy hunkered down beside one particularly trampled-out area and perused it with all of the studiousness of a scholar reading an ancient and nearly illegible text.
        "Frogstick was here," he told us. "He doubled back on his own trail. He was heading our way, but then he was jumped by hogs. Now, they're chasing him."
        That was just like Frogstick. Here he had gone and worn out a whole pack of gators (we had counted at least fourteen different sets of footprints), and now he was joshin' and funnin' around with some wild hogs, which are a sight meaner that gators, and more dangerous to boot! Some guys have it made. We looked at each other sneakily, ashamed of the envy that we felt for our boon companion.
        So what if he got all of the thrills? Was that his fault?
        We sighed and shrugged and proceeded on his trail. He would really have some stories for us when we finally caught up with him. At least he would if he was still alive. We trudged northwards, each wishing that we could be in Frogstick's size thirteens for a while. None of us ever had the sense it takes to pluck a goose, we thought, but couldn't we at least have some fun? Nevertheless, in spite of these cogitations, we heaved a collective sigh into the listingly whispering, whimpering wind, and stoically continued on our trek. We tracked them northwards, and by and by we passed by a little clearing that was on our left.
        "Shhh..." hissed Billy, and looking over into the clearing we all caught sight of Sha-No-She-Ba, the legendary behemoth, the Terror of the Wilds. She was slumbering peacefully on her back. Sha-No-She-Ba was incredibly huge and sort of scary to behold, a glistening, pulsating, compactly knit package of gatorishly annihilative destructive power.
        Needless to say, our pace speeded up a bit there for a while after we spied that reptile. I was pleased to see how the boys could still pick 'em up and put 'em down after all of these years, and we ran for at least a mile before we stopped to catch our breath.
        "Giant slime monster, all in my brain, far gone in crimsoned yellow dreamland. My eyes copped a buzz upon a gnarly relic from the twilight zone for reptiles. It copped some major zees, spat out the waste upon the sand: sleepingly zoning to walk anew---in electric gatorland," said Zeb as he stood there with the rest of us, panting in the shade.
        "A zoological wonder," said Egghead.
        "My eyes beheld the fated beast, or else betrayed their native bearer," quoth Billy.
        "That thing was scarier that a bar of soap," blated old Stinkeroo, causing all of us to erupt vivaciously with the contagious outbreak of a bad case of laughter, which spread quickly because of our inflamed humours.
        "ZZZZZZZZ," snored Slug, asleep on his feet. We all gaped at him in astonishment.
        "I wonder when he fell asleep?" asked Egghead, "was he sound asleep while we were all running through the woods, or did he nod off since we've stopped?" Of course that was just like Egghead, to ask such a question. He might as well have asked, "which came first, the chicken or the cow?"
        At this crucial moment in the space-time continuum, Slug roused himself and rubbed his eyes, looking around sleepily at all of our sweating faces.
        "What happened?" he asked drowsily.
        "Nothing important," I answered, "you can go back to sleep."
        Well now, he did, right there in front of us; his chin hit his chest and he was out like a light, except that he had never been lit up in the first place.
        "I was sleeping one time, and I dreamed that I was awake," said Stink, "but when I woke up I was still asleep."
        "Well, that is the direction in which Frogstick is fleeing," said Billy, busily ignoring Stink's lunacy and pointing a skinny finger towards the north-east. We all considered Frogstick's plight one more time. Safely delivered from Sha-No-She-Ba and her gang of truculent cut-throat quadrupeds, Frogstick had apparently been ambushed in short order by a pack of wild hogs.
        Some people get all the action! Our puny lives seemed like pale shadows next to Frogstick's glamorous existence.
        "Look at that," said Egghead, pointing to our right, and so we did. We saw something there that was a bit unusual. At first I thought that it was a bay head, one of those thick clumps of trees and undergrowth so common in Florida. But what was a bay head doing on dry ground in the middle of a live oak forest? I could make out a narrow gap in the dense vegetation, so I said, "Follow me boys," and they did.
        The undergrowth was as thick as I had ever seen; you couldn't see through it more that a couple of feet, but the narrow path was smooth and well worn. It doubled back upon itself more that once, but meandered ahead in spite of these portentously contorted tortuousities. Pretty soon we rounded a sharp curve, and we stepped into a large clearing.
        The birds were singing, the sun was out, and there was a lovely little hollow (or "bottom" as we call them in the Sunshine State) hidden there in the middle of that bay head.
        Beside the entranceway that we had just come through there was an iron mailbox that looked about as old as the hills, and it was rusted up as solid as an engine block; on it you could make out the initials, "H.A.T.F."
        I looked out over the pretty little holler. The bottom was entirely surrounded and neatly fenced in by the thick growth around its rim.
        Down in the shallow hollow, somebody had taken up housekeeping, and they were doing a pretty good job of it, whoever they were. There was an ancient log cabin down there, with a big old front porch, a well, a pump, and a stack of firewood.
        Smoke was rising from the chimbley*, and unless my stomach was deceiving my mind by way of my nose they were frying some fatback in a cast iron skillet inside of this idyllic little dwelling. Off to one side of the cabin there was a satellite dish. Along about this time an ancient-looking fellow in bib overalls clumped out onto the porch and looked up at us.
        "Well, just don't stand there a'gawkin'," he says, "come on down and make yourselves at home."
        I might as well tell you that we didn't know just what to expect, but we all walked down the path and up onto his porch.
        "Huck Finn's the name," he says to us, "I reckon you know your own names." He stuck out a withered claw, and I shook it. Then he stuck out his hand, and I shook that too.
        "I have to hand it to you, boy," he flapped at me, "not many of you young fellers would shake hands with that old withered claw like you did." He winked. "I won it in a contest in a town called Lucerne, there on the shores of the mighty Mississip'. That was before Jim was freed and he caught them two scalawags and sold them to Zemo Flint, who planned on usin' them to feed his dogs."
        He grinned a toothless grin. "Zemo, of course, decided that they might p'ison his pack of hounds, so he sold them to a traveling troupe, and they eventually became famous actors on Broadway, as you all know. But I'm fergettin' my manners.
        Go on, sit down," he says, "make yourselves at home." He sat down himself in a big old cane-bottomed chair and motioned to us to sit on the other chairs and sawed-off stumps that were scattered around on the rickety porch. "I was expecting you," he told us.
        "How....?" said Egghead, but Huck's upraised hand cut him off at the pass.
        "I know all about Frogstick and the gators, and about his new friends the hogs, and I know where you will find him, too." He pointed at Egghead. "Your author let me in on it, and a finer, more honorable feller I ain't never met, except for maybe anyone else that you could name." Egghead was as excited as all get-out by this latest piece of information.
        "You see," he cried, "I told you guys about it! We really are just fantastic fictional characters!"
        "No way!" hollered Stink, and to prove his point he took his shoes off right there on the spot.
        Well sir, it seemed like a cloud passed over the sun. The birds all shut up their singing, and a great gust of wind smashed the hideous fumes from his exposed podifers into our horrified faces. The force of the nose-blow sent me reeling; my mind spun out of control; I was drawn down, down, down, into a familiar whirlypool of velvety blackness. Then it was all black, as black as smut, a light-sucking darkness of black, like an amoebic non-entity drinking in the light voraciously without even leaving the excess for others to enjoy. I spun dizzyingly into this unlit cottony gauze of double-spun dark, and then I fell asleep.
        I came to on my back there in that little holler. The boys were scattered all over the place, and they were all a bit groggy from the horrible experience that we had just survived.
        "That was kind of like life on the river raft," said Huck reflectively. "Ah, those were the days," he opined, "but it was a mite close there among them fellers, I'll tell you that, and blamed if them old scalawags ever bathed, nor spritzed, nor wore toilet water, nor me nor Jim neither. It was a mite gamy thereabouts, because we was wedged in kind of close, like I said."
        "Electric help!" cried a familiar scalawag of our own, "Paisley help!" We looked up at the big TV antennae that was in Huck's yard. A-way up on top of that thing was Zeb, hanging by his suspenders from the crossbar, swaying in the breeze like a goat on a flagpole.
        "I knew I should'a torn that thing down when I got the satellite dish," said Huck.
        We sent Stink up there to unhook him, seeing as how he was responsible for this fine state of affairs, and Zeb fell down with a crash and a bang right into the yard dirt beneath the tree, scattering the chickens away with a cackle. That is, he scattered the chickens that had survived Stink's little joke.
        The rest of those biddies just sort of lay there and didn't twitch, if you know what I mean. I guessed that Huck would be having chicken for supper for a week, judging from the extent of the damage by Monsieur Stinky LePew.
        "You fellers had better boogie on down the road," said Huck, "Frogstick needs your help." He put his hand on my shoulder. "I'll walk with you a part of the way."
        My bedraggled band of misfits followed behind us as we wended our way back through the dense bay head and into the live oak forest. Then we headed due northeast at top speed. It was amazing to see how nimble old Huck was; he must have been at least 150 years old, but he was as quick as greasy lightning and as spry as a dogless flea. Pretty soon it was getting close to sunset, and we all bid the Huckster a fond farewell. But before we parted mummery he gave us a hefty dose of good advice, which he poured into our ears after boiling it in his brain until it was sterile.
        "You all listen to old Huck," the decrepit geezer said, "and I'll stuff your ears plumb full of sage advice." He thumbed his suspenders and leaned back against a tree, chewing thoughtfully upon a twig.
        "Don't take any wooden nickels," he began, "and keep your powder dry. Follow the example of my friend Jim; he changed his name to Roebuck and did real well in the mail order business over in Chicago.
        "Don't do like old Tom Sawyer; why, he was only the best one that I ever seen with a story; he could tell them real grand, and I couldn't so much as hold a candle to him, that's how good he was. But he fell into drinkin' too much Fizzies, and he took to snappin' at the bubbles when they rose up thick and lively after he dropped the pill into the glass, and now he lies a'molderin' in the grave, just like John Brown, that savage murderer of women and children, who proved to be as vicious and as evil as any slave owner who ever lived. If you don't believe me, ask the women and children murdered by his gang.
        "Don't never hunt in the off season, and don't wear stripes with plaids." He sighed. "Well," he says finally, "I reckon that this is all I've got to say. You boys take care of your ugly selves, all of them, and don't forget to write me and Becky sometime care of the Nowhere County Wilderness Area Campground and Theater."
        "Becky?" I asked.
        "Mrs. Finn," beamed Huck, as proud as a banty rooster, "you don't think I'd live out here all alone, do you?"
        Well sir, that took the cake. Me and the boys just looked at each other and shook our heads as our pal Huck disappeared into the forest.
        "Amazing, isn't it?" asked Egghead. I could only agree.
        It was almost dark now, so Billy spoke up and informed us that he knew of a place nearby where we could stay, a place where we could find showers and beds. We all followed him through the woods as he led us to these digs. By and by we came to a two laned blacktop, and we followed it north-a-ways until we rounded a bend and caught sight of an old tourist motel up ahead.
        A neon sign in front of the joint declared this place to be The Wildside Motel. Another sign informed us that a long building beside this motel was the home of the Wild Side Roadhouse and Deepfry Grille. The familiar neon "sign of the rising bubbles" in the roadhouse window declared to the world that Fizzies was sold on the premises.
        We approached the motel without an inkling of what lay in store. We were living proof that ignorance was bliss, and we didn't know any better than to enjoy life anyway. But boy, were we in for an education; whether we wanted one, or not.